Chapter LXVI: The Eve of Midsummer

Four months later.

It was a week before Midsummer Ball, and there was a hum in the Oppenheim Den. Most members of the Lycan Council had been arriving since the previous morning, some by carriage, others by underground passageways. Each pack-leader was allowed to bring a contingent of at most twenty, including decoys—creatures whose sole purpose was to provide cover for their respective leaders—save for the few who either did not care or no longer had the numbers to care.

For example, instead of decoys, Auguste had brought his chef and an additional staff of twelve to help bolster the kitchen ranks. This would have been less than problematic if Benoit had not had the same idea. The second of the chefs unfortunately relegated to the rank of sous-chef, but the insult still simmering. Hence the reason he—the most notorious leader ever to rule the lycan horde—was now standing at the doorway to a piping-hot kitchen, forced to review what had to be the most ridiculous menu he'd seen since the sixteenth century.

It was insanity.

There were twelve courses. Each course offering a pottage, a selection of meats, breads, vegetables, a side of spiced blood, and a specific blood-wine for those who were partaking. They were serving swan, peacock, hawk, pheasant, beef, mutton, venison…he had lost count. A part of his brain still trying to grapple with what the bloody hell he was doing in a kitchen in the week before Midsummer. But according to Allegra, both chefs outranked his housekeeper, he outranked both Auguste and Benoit, and most unfortunately, Raze was not arriving until the actual day, therefore it was up to him—he would say again, him—the master…of the blood-forsaken lycan horde, to review the menu…

…and approve it.

The majority of the food coming across as a dirge to rival a budgetary council meeting. The chefs providing detail about their respective courses, each voice going on and on in French as the one would sweep his hand, perfectly balanced, along the paper from line to line…followed by the other. The seventh course would be swan stuffed with the carcasses of six other birds (goose, mallard, chicken, partridge, pigeon and a woodcock), the eighth course would be smoked eel served with devil's milk, the ninth course would be the cat of nine tails. The tenth course would be…

Lucian jerked out of his reverie and raised two fingers, stopping both men short. "Cat of what?"

"Nine tails, sir." Both chefs had somehow merged into a scent of pride. "It is a…" The two chefs were for once, looking at one another without any animosity, the two of them nodding as though—yes, they could agree on this one thing. "…highlight of the new cuisine."

"A highlight?"

"Yes, sir."

"Elaborate."

The Parisian chef indicated the fireplace. "We begin with the animal—purebred of course—fed only milk, chicken and fish for its lifetime. The creature is skinned, marinated in its own blood, and roasted over the fire. It is then portioned into nine sections, each of which is served on a bed of wild salmon paired with asparagus and a sauce vierge."

He snapped his fingers for the menu.

The chef handed it to him. Each line item paired with a symbol. An indication of the den whose cuisine was being honoured.

Gustav.

He frowned, tapping the back of the menu with the same two fingers, thinking it through. Blood, the man had to have found out somehow. And insulting him was not the ideal way to start the festivities. Thinking, thinking, thinking. His fingers flicking in time to the clock…

…and then…

"No."

"But…sir, it is a delicacy." Both men were looking confused, their smiles matching, suggesting that perhaps their lordship had not heard. "We were told to prepare something that would be the highlight of each den. Lord Gustav himself suggested it…"

Of course he did.

He resisted the urge to massage his temples, instead handing the menu back. "Can you substitute the cat with something else?"

"Well…" They looked at each other and smiled as though he spoke in jest. "…no, sir."

"Then cut it."

"But we have been…" There was a scent of despair starting to rise in the kitchen. "…preparing them for months, sir. The milk, the fish—every one of their meals has been planned. They are of the perfect weight."

"And I hear you," he said warmly. For once, trying to have some sympathy for a world that required his blessing. "But the thing is…" He gripped the one man's shoulder and clapped the other on the back. Loath to explain why the next six months of living with Reinette would be hell if she smelled cat blood at the dinner table."…we are not serving it. So use a different animal or drop it from the menu. Alright?"

Behind the two men, he could see Frau Eger, the more sensible cook of his own den shaking her head over a pastry, clearly already having tried to tell them—and no doubt being shot down for the sake of rank and all that came with having a blood-forsaken toque blanche on one's head.

The first chef opened his mouth. A sob no doubt about to come out, but in the end, he held it in and bowed his head once. "Of course, sir."

Good, he thought…

…letting the men go, and in the same moment, realising there was a second page in the sous-chef's hands. There was more. He had been wrong. It was not just twelve courses. He was going to die here. In a kitchen.

He breathed…

…and then snapped his fingers.

"Alright, continue."

o…o…o

A week later…

He was standing in what was being transformed into a ballroom, the curtains swept back to reveal the gardens and the sun glaring into his eyes. It was brutal. Midsummer. The only time of year when he had to be awake during the day. Steps on the wooden floor and a rumbling voice called him to attention.

"Lucian."

He turned and then smiled grimly. As usual the man failed to comprehend the need for any secrecy, as though being surrounded by acres of their own people could somehow write off the danger.

The height of the ballroom doors thankfully providing enough space for the dusty-haired beast to pass through, but the mirrors reflecting him in such a manner as to suggest an invading army. For despite dressing the part of an Edwardian gentleman, he still could not shake that look. Viking. And one of the few who had to take the Oppenheim tunnels lest he draw too much attention to the extra feet that made up his height.

"Magnus."

He clasped the man's hand in welcome. It was rare for the Northern packs to come south for Midsummer. The last seven years making him realise how much he had missed seeing the man.

A true friend.

And then—realising he was in the wrong room for greeting guests, but far too tired to care—he turned back to the windows and indicated the fountain. "Apparently, the retainers of Morrigan want to put lanterns along the walkway, but Dante's people think it would interfere with the procession, so they want wreaths instead…so they are asking me…if we are doing lanterns or wreaths."

"Are you in hell?"

"Yes."

Magnus scratched his beard. "Can you do both?"

He shook his head. Still staring at the fountain vacantly, hands behind his back, while contemplating his decision. For it had more to do with the lantern once again refusing the wreath's offer to buy coal from the lantern's den.

Normally he would flip a coin…

…but in this case, after meditating on the subject all morning, it had occurred to him that, if he went with the wreaths, he could count on his coal investments being penalised the next time they came up for renewal; but if he went with the lanterns, he'd find his annual shipment of blood-wine had found its way to the bottom of the ocean instead of his cellar.

Magnus started to chuckle. As ever, requiring less than a minute to sense when he was overthinking the endless cycle that was his life. The man sensing his mood…

…and then shoving him on the shoulder, pointing past the fountain to where the beer casks were being unloaded.

"Should we do something else?"

He blinked.

"Gladly."

o…o…o

And so it went.

The week before the ball winding everyone up until it was two days before Midsummer. The first of the evening feasts…and the first night they brought Reinette down. Masks everywhere. Music and dancing, the ballroom full and his Council members lost in the crowd, but all of them watching as she descended the stairwell, flanked by Rena.

It was always this way.

She hated it.

Even from across the room, he could smell that she hated it…and so could they. And yet he did insist. For he had promised her. His people would be her people. And she would be welcome in the halls of his den. But like the days of the Victorian seance, it could not stop the room from going silent. The music stopping. The dancers freezing. It was the reason she hated Midsummer.

But if he had to deal with it…

…she would.

He inclined his head in welcome. She sighed, ignoring his gesture…and then took a glass of the strongest blood she could find from a tray before going to stand in one of the corners. Waiting for it to start. The prodding questions. The catty insults. The music resuming and the upper-class lycans around her starting to swirl. Peering over their shoulders.

Peering into her face. No mask for her—but the veil in place for she would not leave her rooms in any other state when they had company. Always the veil when she was surrounded by his people. Always that chasm between them.

"Is that her?"

Borya had come to stand beside him. One of two council-members who failed to turn up the last time they had put Reinette on show. The man had the bluntness of an ox and the mask to match it. And though he had not had an opinion seven years ago, by his scent, he was bloody-well interested now.

Lucian leaned back against his pillar. "That's her."

"She smells like she wants to kill everyone."

"I know." He tipped his glass. "…but that's how you can tell it's her."

The rest of their conversation interrupted by the sudden entry of an intense wave of perfume on his right followed by a voice, scathing and sultry, one that made him want to breathe a little deeper into his whisky glass. "Oh dear heavens, Alexander, you're still keeping her then…"

He didn't bother looking. "Jacqueline."

"Alexander."

"How are things?"

"Wonderful." She came to stand in front of him. Inclining her neck long enough to show the ivory earrings. "My father and I were pleased to receive your invitation. Although I was worried it would interfere with the wedding."

"When is that?"

"In a month."

"And what's his name again?"

"Diggory."

"Well, that is…" He raised his glass. "…splendid. You have my congratulations. May you have many happy years."

She pointed towards Reinette's corner. "You didn't answer my question."

"I didn't hear one," he said, leaning back against his pillar again so he could follow her line of sight. Trying to focus on the conversation, but having just caught sight of Magnus talking with Reinette. Unlike the rest of the people in the hall, the Northern pack-leader made no bones about who he was.

For no one else could be that tall.

Jacqueline said something about crones. He nodded his head. Barely having heard what she said… The conversation stilted, as though the dusty-haired giant was trying to find anything they might talk about that might lessen the look of death she was giving him.

The man handing her something small. A token of some kind. What the devil had he handed her? His ears picking up something that was…not English. The man choosing to speak his own tongue to her…and she taking it in, staring at the thing in her hand…and then walking away without responding. Her scent following in a wake of rage. He didn't even notice as Jacqueline stalked away. His eyes following Reinette and then Magnus. Something had just happened.

He could feel it.

Something very wrong with that conversation. Like milk in the moments before it was about to go sour.

o…o…o

Three hours later.

The ballroom was still a flurry of activity, but for the sake of his sanity, he'd retreated to his study for precisely thirty minutes to give himself a breather. As it was just after midnight and he was technically on the work shift, he was also trying to catch up on what could be described as a losing battle with the economical state of his Horde. Unfortunately, the door to his study opened.

"Two…years?"

He looked up from his desk…and then immediately, flipped his agenda shut. Clearly he would not be reviewing the referendum on hunting practices in the state of Bavaria.

"Would it help if I gave you some context?"

She'd already stormed to his cabinet, pouring herself a drink from the decanter. "You sold me."

"I didn't sell you." He stood up. "I saved you…and the other choice was death, so I think if we weigh that against two years, it really starts to sound more inviting…"

The blood-wine went into the fire. She put the glass down…and stalked out of his study.

Fuck.

The problem with Reinette was she didn't break things. She didn't push the point. She didn't argue. She simply absorbed it…and then brooded on it…for days. In silence. And if anyone happened to be sitting in their vicinity, they would be wondering why she wasn't slitting his throat.

o…o…o

Fifteen minutes later.

He found her by the garden pond. It was a secluded enough space. Though not part of the lantern-lit fountain, it was still surrounded by wreaths, a shoddy attempt at keeping himself stocked up with blood-wine for the rest of the year. The few couples trying to explore the far corners of the grounds quickly discerning that this was not a conversation they wished to be part of…

…thereby leaving them alone. And no doubt the subject of much gossip if Jacqueline had anything to do with it.

But one bridge at a time.

The bridge he was trying to cross clearly falling apart for she was not only smelling like death now, but she was also literally killing a portion of the garden. Shredding half the sedge around the pond and strewing the bits over the water for the insects to feast upon. Ignoring him when he came to stand beside her.

"Can we talk about this?"

"What is there to talk about?" she asked.

Her voice so quiet. Her scent full of rage. An intense hatred of everything that was around her.

He inhaled it…and then breathed out his offer. "Reinette, you still have some choice in the matter," he said. Reciting the terms he'd spent the past seven years staring at with a vague sense of foreboding. "Two years of every decade—but for every year you fail to show, they add another to the next decade."

It did little to curb the scent.

She muttered something in her native language. Brushing some of the sedge from her shawl before moving her attack to the wildflowers along the border. An entire season of dog violets dying prematurely before she finally scuffed the last one into the pond and asked him the question. "Do you want me to go?"

"I hadn't really thought about it." He kicked a rock into the pond. "I mean, Danielle is awful at chess so…"

The rest went unsaid.

Normally she would have laughed at that. But she refused to look at him. Her fists crumpling all that she had left in her hand. Letting the petals drift behind her, letting them float into the pond. "Is that what the third missive was about?"

He nodded.

She was now scowling at the water. "You should have told me," she said. Her hands were straining for it. Something. All that she did not have.

"Would it have helped?"

"Yes."

Damn.

He'd really been hoping for a 'no.'

Masking the pause, he put his hands in his coat pockets. "Look, I thought…" It sounded wrong immediately. So before her scent could rile, he added a caveat. "…at the time, I thought it would be a quick decision for you. Like a holiday or something."

"You see two years of enforced servitude as a holiday?"

"Why not?"

"Because I am…" She smelled stricken. Trying to come up with the words. Trying to say something, but the word seeming to fall so short of all that she wanted to say. "…not ready."

He shrugged. "Then skip it."

It seemed simple enough.

But there was disbelief on her scent. The woman staring at his expression, or its lack thereof, as though she could not trust his intentions. The taste of broken promises still on her tongue.

Her voice soft when she finally responded. "Really?"

"Really," he said. Feeling like once again he might be making the biggest mistake of the century. "We'll let them know you are not inclined towards their proposal yet…and we'll cross the next bridge when it comes."

And he knew it would comfort her.

He knew it would take a spell before her neck would relax. Her shoulders. Her lungs to start working again. Relief on her breath always slow to come. To the point that even after she got up, coming to stand beside him, he knew her claws would still be out, and as ever, her scent would be one of wariness. The woman eying the house and then fiercely looking towards him. "You still should have given me more warning."

He looked askance at her. "And risk having you stab me in my sleep?"

That drew a laugh. Barely, but it spoke volumes for a woman whose joy was rare. As ever, the lady who would not be slighted. "I would not have stabbed you," she said. The pause suggesting she could easily offer an alternative, but her words serious when she spoke them. "…but you could have told me."

"I keep secrets," he said. "It's what I do."

She made a scoffing sound. Refusing to take his bait. In years past, she might have admonished him for being arrogant, but instead, she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "Is that why you haven't told anyone?"

"About what?"

She eyed him grimly and picked a seed-head off his shoulder. "That you're blind in your right eye."

He took the seed-head. "Who says I'm blind?"

"I do."

He surveyed her. "And who says I haven't told anyone?"

She did not lower her gaze. Like staring into the sea, the eyes gleaming in the dark, and the veil failing to dim their lustre. "You wouldn't be trying to hide it so much if you had."

He gave a soft laugh, examining the seed-head and then letting it fall to the ground. "So why haven't you told anyone?"

"It's not my secret to share," she said, pushing her way past him. "Although I think Singe is starting to notice some of your tactics."

And with that she was gone.

Probably for the rest of the evening. The barest sound of footsteps in the darkness telling him she was not alone before the scent veered off towards the forest. Its notes filled with a mixture of tenderness, sorrow, and hatred. All of the warmth starting to die out with each passing day. As though someone—likely Rena—was teaching her to mask her scent.

He looked after them both…and then brushed his right shoulder before heading back inside. Knowing Reinette, she had likely left half the garden on his coat just to teach him a lesson.

o…o…o

Thirty minutes later.

"Fuck, Magnus—could you not have given me some warning?"

"I thought you told her."

He coughed, waving the smoke away. "Why would you think that?"

"Because it's been seven years," he said. "…and the other packs, Lucian, they are…" He took a sip of his lager. "…eager."

"Did they send you a note as well?"

Magnus laughed. "I think they sent everyone a note once you stopped replying to them."

He grimaced, still eyeing the forest. Balancing on one of the upstairs balcony rails, his back to the wall and the smoke in his hand. Allegra's warning was still in his pocket. "Well maybe in ten years, they'll get a response."

"What?"

He nodded, stubbing out his cigarette. "They gave her a choice, remember?"

"Ha." The man seemed constantly amused by his surroundings. But there was a line of wariness in his scent. "Are you sure you want me to tell that to Gottfrid and Thore?"

"If I was anything but the lycan-master, I would say 'no,' but as it is…" He shrugged. "…fuck it."

o…o…o

Two hours later.

He was starting to regret having returned to the feast. Raze was nowhere to be seen yet and Magnus was now in the underground, informing his fellow pack-leaders of his decision. He'd initially been aiming for the bar, but for some reason, Allegra had managed to force him into a circle with Diggory. The boy looked familiar. But he couldn't put his finger on why.

"Horses?"

"Yes, sir." He was a dapper fellow, his chin clean shaven and his moustache overtly oiled. "It's a sure bet. Can't lose."

"Is that legal?"

"I believe so, sir."

He nodded, eyeing the clock before using his whisky glass to indicate the gaggle of ladies in the drawing room behind them. "I hear congratulations are in order."

"Yes, sir."

"And how'd you meet?"

"The Hangrove Society Ball."

He could feel the last of the air leaving his lungs.

He downed his drink.

"Really."

o…o…o

Twenty-two feet away.

Hannah Marie Louise Cavendish was failing to see it. She and the other two debutantes of the year were clustered around a parlour palm, whispering in the far corner of the drawing room. The absence of Sabine at the Midsummer festivities providing them with an unexpected opportunity to discuss the one topic they never dared to bring up in her presence.

The lycan-master.

Dignified in his bearing, handsome enough, but as they had discussed in great length, bearded, which they all agreed was not what they were looking for now that beards were being replaced by the more popular moustaches. And there were so many…younger…men of their generation. Lord Diggory Foster, for example. Now there was a man with a fine moustache…

And why would a Baroness be a mistress when there were perfectly suitable matches at the ready?

"But who is she?"

"Baronness Herrmann," she whispered to Marigold. "She's the second one this year."

"A Baronness?"

"Yes—but officially, they're calling her the chaperone." They had made a circle of themselves, one by one peeping over each other's shoulders to see into the smoking room.

"But why would she want to be a…" Adelaide's voice dropped to a mouthing word. "…a mistress?"

Unfortunately for Hannah Marie Louise Cavendish, that was precisely where her knowledge ended. For though she was the eldest among them—and the most versed in the Line Rumour—it was true that, due to the societal pages being in the centre of the rag, she often only had the bare minimum of information relating to the bimonthly gossip.

For example, and as she had explained to Marigold and Adelaide, she knew that Baronness Herrmann had earned her title through marriage to a much older gentleman—a mortal who had passed away recently, leaving his much younger wife with a great deal of money and a lack of entertainment. However what she did not know was why Baronness Herrmann looked like a cat preening herself.

In the end, being eldest among them, she turned to her fellow ladies and gave what she could only hope would be an honest and dignified opinion as was expected of a lady of good breeding. "I suppose he must be a man of good company."

Behind them, there was a soft tinkle of laughter.

The only warning they had that not only had they been heard, but they were most unfortunately not alone. Even worse, the scent they had failed to notice.

Elder.

She was seated on one of the plush settees. Enough women of darker skin in their society that it became difficult to tell which elder with her scent masked. Her face and hair covered in peacock feathers; but her dress suggested a rank of which they could only dream. It could be anyone. A land-owner. A dame. A friend to the baroness for all they knew.

Immediately they curtseyed, like a corps de ballet that had been caught out of line. Shoulders tense, eyes on the floor, aware that they were perhaps staring at the end of their societal future.

But having shown her amusement, the woman merely turned her head to look in the same direction as well. "You are discussing the lycan-master?"

Marigold gulped.

The peacock feathers seemed to shimmer in the light. "And you are confused why a baroness would want to be his mistress?"

They were ruined, Hannah realised. Breathing and bowing her head another inch. "We meant no offence, ma'am," she said. For there was no sense in dishonesty—the woman would likely smell it before the lie had left her lips.

The woman sighed.

And then waved a gracious hand for them to sit, still looking towards the smoking room. The three of them obeyed. It was not often that an actual elder of the horde deigned to speak to a societal youth, but as it was the eve of Midsummer, it seemed as though she were willing to break a rule.

The lady's next words spoken beneath her breath for it was not the kind of topic that one wanted heard in any circle save for the extremely quiet and close one in which they were sitting in. "How much have your mothers told you about Midsummer?"

"We read about it…"

"Adelaide's mother gave us Mrs. Drake's book…"

"…we are not allowed to stay for the actual feast, ma'am but we…"

She waved them to silence. Seeming to already regret having taken them under her wing. Reaching to the side-table and finding her drink, the scent suggesting it was more wine than blood-wine. But then she laughed again. "You know I was once your age, though the custom of my youth had a different life in store for me." The woman flicked her fan open. "But trust me, children, you will not find the answer to this mystery in Mrs. Drake's book."

Children?

Hannah blushed.

They were not children. Her mother had explained it to her…all of it. In detail. They were not…children. They were seventeen. And as soon as a suitable match was found, they'd be the wives of their own households.

And then contrary to all that was expected of an elder, the masked woman leaned ever so slightly back against the settee so she could be heard by all who were sitting on it. "So the Rumour is," she said, putting her glass down. "…that he can…smell…when you're about to feel it."

"Feel what?"

"It."

Hannah looked at the other girls. "You mean…"

"Yes." Truly at her ease, the woman started fanning herself while looking over her shoulder. "And apparently, because he knows, the word on the town is that he can…you know…" She gestured with her fan.

Hannah frowned. "What?"

"Well…" The masked woman sighed, seeming not to know quite how she should put it. "…contrary to what Mrs. Emma F. Angell Drake would have you know, it is so much more than just…" She closed the fan. "…'replenishing the earth,' isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Yes, darling." She flicked her fan towards the smoking room. "And for those of us who are aware of that fact—if you had to choose between a decades-old youth who vaguely knows where the saddle is…and someone who…" She sighed, tapping the fan against her lips. "…rides the horse, so to speak, it does tend to cause interest among…well…" The fan waved in a circle, indicating the entirety of the room.

Ah.

Hannah swallowed. Thankful that she was not the only one whose cheeks had gone crimson. And with that, the lady waved them away as though she had done her due diligence and was now keen for them to stop blocking her view.

The three of them quickly stood, bobbed a curtsey and said "Ma'am" before they left. All of their eyes now starting to veer back towards the smoking room.

o…o…o

Ten minutes later.

He dropped on the settee.

"I can't do it."

"Lyosha, go back in there."

"What does it matter?" He was starting to see why Reinette hated Midsummer. They'd only gotten to the first feast. It was three in the morning and he'd been up since four. He was tired…and he wanted to go home. Except his home was now filled with everything he was trying to avoid.

"He can't be that bad."

"Allegra, it was like talking to a palm plant." He was staring at his empty glass. He wanted it full…but the fucking bar was on the other side of the smoking room. Probably time to turn in. Half his vision gone and the other half suggesting he probably didn't want to see what was happening on his right side anyway. And then he squinted at one of the other settees. "What the hell is Morrigan doing?"

Allegra looked over her shoulder to where he was looking. The Highland pack-leader was seated in the far corner of the drawing room, fanning herself with peacock feathers, her plush throne surrounded by what appeared to be an army of young women. All of them leaning in like she was offering them a bone.

Her lips tightened. "Educating the next generation, I would expect."

"About what?"

"Never you mind." Rather than explain herself, she got up. "Now go back in there, make the small talk and four decades from now, you can thank me when Jacqueline's children are not plotting your demise."

Her skirts practically twitching as she headed in the direction of Morrigan and her posse.

He exhaled…and then stood up, heading back to the smoking room.

Fucking Midsummer, he thought.

o…o…o

"Alright, ladies." The Lady Allegra swept into the corner, startling them all with a clap of her hands. "Away with you."

The girls fled.

Allegra took a seat beside Morrigan. "Is this really necessary?"

Morrigan smiled into her glass. "We have lanterns on the walkways, Allegra. I thought he would appreciate it."

"Has he ever appreciated these rumours?"

The woman raised her hands in peace. "Tell me it's not true and I will stop spreading it."

Allegra leaned forward. "You will stop this nonsense, Morrigan."

"Oh Allegra." The woman tapped her with her fan. Discarding it as she got up. "It was just a bit of fun," she murmured beneath the mask. Turning to whisper over her shoulder. "And you still haven't denied it, so what's the harm?"

She swished off.

Allegra breathed…and then picked up the discarded fan, opening it to give herself a wave. Blood, it was hot.

o…o…o

Reinette was on her way back to the third floor. Eager to remove her veil, eager for all these…people…to be gone. Every inch of the house filled with shrieks of laughter and joy, these people who were living their lives as though every day was their last. The restricted section nearly in her grasp when a couple barrelled past, catching her on the shoulder and ripping her shawl off.

It fell to the second floor landing.

She sighed. And then trudged down the staircase and got to her knees, starting to search behind the cabinet where it had fallen. Spying the edge, she managed to snag it with an outstretched finger, dusted it off and immediately regretted looking up.

There was a girl leaning against the balustrade. Or at least she thought of her as a girl. Young in her appearance. Possibly in her twenties. But so hard to tell among immortals. Watching her as though she were curious what this creature was doing crawling on the carpet.

Blood.

Not again.

If she heard the question, 'are you the blood-seer' one more time, she was liable to stab something. But as she stood, brushing past the girl, it was not her question, but the statement that stopped her short. "My father was hoping you would return with us."

Reinette turned around. Danish.

"And you are?"

"Freyja."

Of course you are, she thought with a flicker of irritation. Wanting to snap her teeth. The girl's hair so light, so fine in its appearance, that it seemed to have been spun out of gold. Eyes blue as her heavenly namesake. A beauty. Though she was not wearing the same style of clothes as the other women. Even in summer, her clothing was lined with fur, reaching up to her neck with the collar embroidered in red.

It looked like blood.

She was thankful for her veil. "Well, you can tell your father that he will be disappointed."

"He already knows," the girl said softly, switching from Danish to Latin, her tongue sweeping between the two languages as though she had been schooled in it from birth. Her accent was perfect. Clearly someone had been educating themselves.

Her surprise could not be masked.

And the girl knew it.

"Until we meet again," said Freyja. Her steps taking her back towards the ball. Pity in her smile as though she were petting the lycan-master's dog.

Leaving her on the landing.

Before the girl could take another step, she reached for the balustrade and called after her in a tone that she hoped would come across as foreboding. "Not for ten years."

Freyja laughed. Even her laugh was appealing.

Her words drifting up the staircase like a light mist. "Or sooner."

Such simple words, yet they caused her to freeze in the darkness.

Focusing on her mask. Her breath. Her lungs. Breathing deep. Counting each breath and fighting the instinct that told her to strip the girl's skin off and burn it. The girl was only teasing. And a year from now, once her beauty had had its charm, he would cast her off as he had cast off so many before her. Yet it took all of her will to wait for a count of twelve before pulling her nails out of the wood.

For she was not a monster.

Not anymore. Deep breaths, she thought. Just like Rena taught her. She was one with her emotions. She was water upon fire. She was a candle without wind. She was a…

…she was…

With a curse, she ripped her shawl in half and flung it on the carpet. Staring at the torn fibres. Realising she ought to have left before it could hurt anymore. The shawl abandoned as she headed for her quarters.

To hell with Midsummer, she thought.

A/N: Oh my goodness, four chapters in two months! This has to be a new record. Thank you to all who have reviewed - I read every one. I love them all. I don't answer as often anymore, but I may have been inspired by a recent review to finally…after a decade…introduce a certain character who has been sitting in the wings for the past decade, asking whether she can please, please, please step onto the page. Hope everyone enjoys. As always, please read and review.